Unity (26 page)

Presume that, among anecdotes, he has reported his response to my first period: ‘For God's sake, don't breath a word to the Studio.' And the ‘no more candies' rule he imposed on set when his greedy little girl was crippled with cramps.

Oh yes. A father in a million.

Think I succeeded in setting her mind at rest.

7 p.m. Parcel of books from D[ermot] waiting for me at hotel. Deeply touched that, despite all the calls on his time, he sent them by return. Eager to repay his commitment and take them straight to F[elicity].

Phoned flat. Luke answered that F. was with Wolfram. Sounded angry (with her? with me?). He asked whether actors in
Hollywood
socialised through the night when up at dawn the next day. My reply noncommittal: as a child, I was a special case.

Braved Serpent's Nest. Never at home in communes, even at Berkeley. Remember A[hmet?]'s scorn of students for whom
dishwashing
-rota a revolutionary act. On the evidence, Wolfram & co. equate liberation with mess.

Pick my way through detritus and see unexpected charms in mother's crumb-free code.

F. in kitchen with remains of cous-cous cooked by W.'s boyfriend (tall, taut, lazy eye, sandalwood skin). Hand over books. Spotted by [Carole] Medhurst who cautions F. against Party, like
fortuneteller
on Titanic.

F. overrules her (over-politely), claiming right to decide for herself. Mortified that Trotsky only one of the authors she's heard of.

Amen!

For Medhurst read Judas. Can never forgive her for damage she inflicted on Party and me. Making me look as cranky as someone who consults the I Ching: a refugee from La La Land, whose
politics
are all pose.

News for her and whole pack of cynics: Hollywood the
dream-
factory
; its studios as exploitative as any sweatshop. Fly me down the coast to Mexico, stick me behind a sewing machine 12 hours a day and you'd cause an outcry. But because I was on covers of magazines: because I had my own tutor and chaperone and
chauffeur
: because (above all) I earned rows of noughts, people looked away.

I was the classic victim. And too young/ignorant/terrified to speak out. The most taciturn star since Lassie.

And they wonder why I became a revolutionary!

Reading through last 2 days' entries, fear that impression too grim. Conflicts yes. Dilemmas yes. But, on whole, surprisingly upbeat. Film
. Ralf
(esp between the sheets). Temporary hiccup
when I told him he was clearly not typecast as Hitler (reputed to be impotent). R. pulled away, saying that was exactly the sort of shit he expected from Wolfram. I apologised but, ironically, created very condition I'd just denied.

Made up (for it) later.

Bavaria Studios present Geraldine Mortimer in Autumn Rhapsody!

11 p.m. Night shoot. Berchtesgaden. Its authentic 3
^rd
Reich railway station standing in for Berlin (D[iana] and U[nity] on a visit). Werner & Jewish backer toadying to train owner (contrast with perfunctory treatment of actors).

What sort of person lovingly preserves Nazi trains?

Drove up this a.m. with F[elicity] and L[uke] (trouble brewing there unless much mistaken), R[alf] and Dieter. Visited the
Obersalzberg
. Views spectacular but sites disappointing. A
Versailles-like
set-up: the entire Nazi leadership built villas around Hitler's Berghof. Heavily bombed 1) by Allies at end of War, 2) by Bavarian Government in 50s. All that remains is the Eagle's Nest, a
teahouse
for VIPs on top of mountain.

So up we went.

Eagle's Nest originally planned by Martin Bormann as surprise present for Hitler's 50th birthday. Surprise? With 3000 men and truckloads of rubble transported daily under his nose?

Reached it via lift (Gilded mirrors and padded leather, cf the Savoy) hewn out of rock. Thrown in with group of American tourists. When told by guide that Eagle's Nest built by slave labour, middle-aged woman, cushioned by rolls of complacency, asked: ‘You mean that they had blacks here too?'

Strange reversal in café. Dieter recognised by group of Austrians (fittingly, for performance in W.'s recent
Magic Mountain
); G.M. just part of scenery. Huge relief.

Sign prominently displayed: It is absolutely forbidden to ask
questions
of the serving staff.

L. (who else?) asked waitress whether Hitler ever came up here during War.

Waitress: Are you blind?

L.: No.

Waitress: Then are you stupid?

Walking outside, bump into 4 English skinheads wearing Union Jack T-shirts.
I'm backing Britain
121
in quite the wrong way. They look so sinister with their hair shorn and dressed in
pseudo-uniform
(deliberately designed to thwart identification parade?).

F.: They've come here on a pilgrimage.

L.: It's nothing so depraved – more likely T-shirts bought for Queen's Jubilee.

L.'s Teddy Bear's Picnic mentality exposed when Dieter tells story of Wolfram in London this summer. Went to some queer pub in East End. Picked up yob and had sex with him in yard.

‘Suck my Nazi cock,' yob commanded.

W. turned on (Sick!). Presumed it was some sort of role-play. But no, his penis was tattooed and, as it grew, a swastika unfurled.

Frustration, like everything else, intensified at night. Waited with F[elicity] for hours in trailer simply to step off train and into crowd of SS men (might as well have used 2 stand-ins in hats).

Endless takes to obtain elusive smoke effect.

Sharp divergence of views:

F.: Genius an infinite capacity for taking pains.

G.M.: In W[olfram]'s case, an infinite capacity for giving them.

Return to hotel at 6 a.m.

Day of sleep and sex.

Forced to qualify yesterday's enthusiasm for R[alf]'s love-making. His expertise not in doubt but the experience would be much improved if he resisted the urge to describe what he was doing as he did it. Like subtitles when you already follow film.

8 p.m. W. throws party. Phenomenal energy. It can't all be
chemical
. He mocks my premature (midnight!) departure, claiming that, after no sleep last night, he anticipates being up till early hours storyboarding tomorrow's scenes.

Macho posturing? Someone who can only function under
pressure
? Or both?

F. & L[uke] equally driven. After morning's rest, they took off for Dachau. Devastated by what they saw. What did they expect?

Far too easy to sentimentalise the past. They should examine conditions inside a Palestinian camp: whole families living in huts smaller than an English shed; crushed petrol cans for walls; the pervasive stink of human and animal excrement; silent children with accusing eyes.

Who's to blame for that? Not the Nazis.

Feel need to seek out Mahmoud. He has always been edgy around me as if wanting to talk but nervous. Presumed it was language barrier but his English turns out to be better than his German.

Find him alone in bedroom, nursing bottle of schnapps. He responds so grudgingly to my questions that I'm on point of giving up when he opens heart (understatement). Pours out all his
grievances
about W. How he deliberately tries to make him jealous/violent. ‘He says he loves me so why does he want to hurt me? Why does he want to make me hurt him?'

The current bone of contention is Luke. W. obsessed with him.

‘If I catch them together, I will kill him. I will kill them both. Then I will kill myself as a third.'

Invoke F., assuring him L. has a girlfriend with whom he is v. much in love. Argument weakened by revelation that M. has a wife and son in Chatila camp in Beirut. Annoyed at own surprise. His subjection to W. a classic case of sexual imperialism. And yet what started as economic necessity appears to have grown into genuine affection.

Tells me a little about wife, Nabila. His cousin. They grew up together and married at eighteen. Son a wedding-night baby. No jobs in Beirut, so he left to lay oil-pipes in Saudi. While there, obtained permit to work in Germany. Now expired ∴ doubly dependent on W.

Ask if permit can be renewed.

Should have been renewed a long time ago.

With shy glance, he tells me that we've met before. Feel both intrigued and anxious. Describe my work for his people and how I went to Beirut to see oppression for self. Then bombshell. He confides that family name = Samif; brother = Ahmet.

How can one name unlock so many memories?

Berkeley, 1967. Two students thrown together at anti-Vietnam demo. Asked to hold up opposite ends of banner before even
introduced
. Best news: not seen a single one of my films. Unlike
frat-house
boys betting on who'd be first to lay Heidi, interested in

G.M. for herself.

Only man I ever knew with scars as deep as mine. Grew up in poverty and squalor under Israeli oppression. So brilliant that given UN scholarship to study on most privileged campus in world.
122

A. opened my eyes. Before we met, I was content to skim surface of life. Turned me into revolutionary.

Mahmoud smiles. Promises fresh meeting sooner than I think. A.
now working as journalist for
al-Hadaf
.
123
Flying to Munich to cover Schleyer case.

Stunned. Unsteady. 4 years since I last saw him. Will he have changed? No matter, I have. Can't let myself fall back beneath his spell. There's too much at stake. Everything that happened, + and –, happened because of him. I might be Jane Fonda if we'd never met.

Beat rapid retreat from party. Tell R. that I've started period. Couldn't bear to sleep with him tonight (ever again?).

Lunch. Standing behind G[erald] at caterer's van. Cheap jibe re last night's chat with Mahmoud (who told him?). Reply that it was totally U-certificate. Bedroom = setting not substance. G., affecting disbelief, mentions Ahmet. Claims I was ‘politicised by Arab cock'. Scorn of his casual sexism empowers me. Counter that, no, satisfied by Arab cock; politicised by Hollywood cock. Strictly kosher. As no one knows better than he.

G. suffers sudden loss of appetite. Tactical withdrawal.

p.m. On set, watch Manfred & Dieter wrestle with Goebbels & Streicher: at loss to comprehend, much less convey, their depravity. Interesting role-reversal. Girl who grew up in lap of luxury knows all about evil. Boys who grew up in ruins of war find it remote.

They should book seats on Geraldine Mortimer's personal tour of Hollywood (Forget all the Homes of Stars shit; this is real thing). Discover the one place comparable to 3
^rd
Reich. A few square miles of realised fantasy in which gods flout laws governing
ordinary
mortals. A world so corrupt that people fall in love with their
own corruption, where fulfilment becomes commonplace and excitement found only in extremes.

I catch Haroko watching me. Gaze of studied sympathy. What does she see?

Black Tuesday.